


Try Hard (with Effulgence)

by dirigibleplumbing



Category: Hot Fuzz (2007)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Assassins & Hitmen, Car Chases, Domestic Fluff, Explosions, F/F, Gratuitous Crawling Through Vents, Janine (Hot Fuzz)/OFC (Minor), M/M, Police, Pre-Slash, Roommates, Shameless Lifting of Scenes and Plot Points from Classic Action Films, omg they were roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21843355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirigibleplumbing/pseuds/dirigibleplumbing
Summary: A day in the life of Nicholas and Danny: flatmates, best friends, and Sandford Police officers. Featuring encounters with an ex-girlfriend, unrealistic car chases, a grumpy waterfowl, brambleberries, a posh German man holding a party hostage with his team of thieves, and a mysterious Russian assassin.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Nicholas Angel & Danny Butterman, Pre-Slash Nicholas Angel/Danny Butterman
Comments: 26
Kudos: 104
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Try Hard (with Effulgence)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stratisphyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stratisphyre/gifts).



> Three action movies, a spy thriller TV show, and a pre-slash Nicholas/Danny fluff story walk into a pub… 
> 
> This story is brought to you by the letter A. No, seriously, I asked three people to take a look at this for me, and all of their names begin with the letter A. Many thanks to my husband A, my friend A, and my other friend A.

###  **18.54: Nicholas Angel’s Cottage**

“I can’t even imagine how much paperwork we’ve incurred.” 

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Nicholas says, knocking his shoulder into Danny’s. “We barely even got started on the Whittemore case, let alone the Sinclair thing and that HGV driver.” 

“Bloody hell, I forgot that was just this morning.” The day, Danny reflected, had been absolutely barmy. “Today was absolutely barmy,” he says. 

“Was it ever,” Nicholas agrees.

###  **Earlier that morning  
06.03 AM: Nicholas Angel’s Cottage**

“Mornin’,” Danny yawns, shuffling out his bedroom door toward the kitchen. 

Nicholas shoots him a smile from the sitting room. He doesn’t pause his game of Halo, though he does shut off the radio newscast. He still somehow hits every single alien onscreen with the utmost precision, the bastard. “Good morning, Danny.” 

They have a routine: after his morning run, Nicholas reads the _Sandford Citizen_ , waters his houseplants, makes tea, yogurt, and toast. Then they sit together and talk and play Xbox until it’s time to get ready for work. Danny loves it. This is the best flatmate situation he’s ever been in, and the one he had at uni was a weed dealer. 

There’s a mug of tea and a plate of toast warming in the oven as usual. He carries them out to the sitting room. “Budge up.” 

Nicholas does, and Danny sinks into the love seat beside him. He sets his feet on the coffee table, rests his mug on the armrest beside him, balances his plate on one knee, and the newspaper onto the other. It’s neatly folded so that one side is taken up entirely by the day’s quick crossword puzzle and clues. 

“You going for a run this morning?” Nicholas asks, fingers and thumbs toggling and pressing bits of the controller. 

“It’s Tuesday,” Danny says through a mouthful of toast. “Jogs are on Mondays, Wednesdays, ‘n Fridays.” 

“Going to practice your falls and rolls, then?” 

Danny throws his head back and groans. When Nicholas had promised to teach him how to jump over garden fences, he hadn’t imagined there’d be so much _trying_ to fall on his arse. “When am I gonna start the actual _jumping_?” he whines. 

“When I know you’ll be safe if you fuck up.” 

“That’s what you always say,” Danny grumbles, gobbling up the last crumbs of his breakfast. He sets his plate on the table and then shifts around so he’s leaning against the arm of the love seat. “Lap?” 

Nicholas lifts the controller high into the air so Danny can set his feet in his lap. He still hasn’t missed a shot. 

Danny takes up his Biro and sets to work on the crossword, using his bent legs as a writing surface. He starts with the short words and works his way up. With Nicholas’s help, he always fills out the whole thing correctly. 

“How do you spell ‘assassin’?” Danny asks. 

“Like the words ‘ass,’ ‘ass,’ and ‘in,’” Nicholas replies. 

“Thanks.” Danny yawns again, his jaw crunching. 

Nicholas tsks and reaches over absent-mindedly to rub at the seam between Danny’s neck and jaw. He continues playing Halo one-handed—and quite successfully, too. His fingers feel heavenly kneading against Danny’s neck. “Have you considered yoga? All this tension isn’t good for you.” 

“Dunno. Wanna go to a class? Uncle Sheldon’s cousin’s sister-in-law teaches one at that place on Tucker Street.” 

“Sure.” 

Nicholas’s attention returns to Halo, Danny’s to his crossword. He gets through a six-letter word meaning jumble or muddle (welter), a nine-letter word for a counterfeit or copy (imitation), an eleven-letter word describing someone given to inquiry and research (inquisitive), and a fair few others before he needs to ask for help. 

“‘Process of making consistent or compatible,’ fourteen letters, ends with an 'n.'" 

“‘Reconciliation’.” 

“Ten-letter word meaning ‘brilliant radiance.’” 

“‘Effulgence’.” 

The rest of the morning passes as usual. Danny finishes the crossword, goes out into the yard, and practices his falls and rolls while Nicholas rearranges parts of his body and natters on about the principles of Aikido. Danny showers and puts on his uniform while Nicholas tidies up Danny’s tidying up of the kitchen and breakfast things. 

They’re ready ten minutes early. The sun is shining, and everything is green. It looks to be an utterly lovely, uncomplicated day. 

###  **07.41: Nicholas Angel’s car**

“Where’re we goin’?” Danny asks. Nicholas isn’t driving toward the station. 

“Crime scene,” Nicholas says, in that grim intense voice that makes Danny’s stomach go all rumbly. 

“What happened?” 

“Mr Whittemore is dead. He was shot.” 

“Why would someone shoot Mr Whittemore?” 

Nicholas purses his lips. Danny can see his face reflected in Nicholas’s aviators, a double-exposure over Nicholas’s eyes. “Why indeed, Danny.” 

Danny thinks this over and in no time they’re pulling up to the library on Chamberlain Street. Most of the shops are on High Street, so nearly all the vehicles parked alongside are law enforcement. “Does that say Metropolitan Police?” 

“The kill matches the _modus operandi_ of a known assassin,” Nicholas replies, still using his icy narrating-a-situation voice. He parallel parks behind a forensics van without pausing or having to scooch forward and back and turn the wheel a little way each time. Instead he just swoops the car to one side, so smooth the wheels might’ve gone sideways. “No stone is going unturned to try to catch them and track down their customers. I’m surprised MI6 aren’t involved.” He underlines this by slamming the car door closed behind him. For a moment he stands there, surveying the situation through his sunglasses. Danny wonders what he sees. 

“Your ex works in London, doesn’t she?” 

Nicholas sighs and heads toward where Saxon and PC Walker are patrolling the perimeter of the cordoned area, which is pretty much the entire library lawn. Danny follows after him. “Yes, she does.” 

“Forensics, right?” 

“Yes.” 

“Like on TV!” 

“No.” 

“Were you in love with her?” 

“I thought I was.” 

“Are you still in love with her?” 

“What? No!” 

“Do you still talk to her?” 

“No.” 

“Not even to send dirty texts and photos ‘n things?” 

“No,” Nicholas says, a little more firmly. 

“You ever think about her?” 

“No.” 

“You think she’s here?” 

“I haven’t given the matter much thought.” 

“You gonna take her out for coffee if she’s here?” 

“I find it unlikely that she’d have any desire to see me.” 

Danny considers this. “You gonna shag her if she does?” 

Nicholas stops in his tracks to glare at Danny. Just as well, since they’re nearly within eavesdropping distance of the group of forensic techs in white jumpsuits, all bent around what is presumably Mr Whittemore’s body and collecting blood spatter and measuring hair follicles and so on. “No, I’m not going to _shag her if_ —” 

He’s cut off by the sound of brakes screeching as an 18-wheel HGV hurtles down the street, setting the pavement to rumbling under it. A tiny little convertible careens after, driven by a broad-shouldered man in a very small t-shirt. The bloke riding shotgun is, appropriately enough, half-standing out of his seat as he aims his shotgun at the HGV’s tyres. 

In the time it takes for Danny to drop his jaw and process this, Nicholas has already slid onto the seat of a motorcycle that Sherry Rivers—Danny’s cousin Teddy’s mum’s son’s fiance—has just stepped off of. Nicholas must think it’s of the utmost urgency, as he’s neglected to put on a helmet. 

Greg Parish—the Turners’ stepsister’s stepbrother’s brother—has also just gotten off his moped, so Danny is busy swinging his leg over and trying to figure out how to keep the thing from tipping over when he watches in horror as the HGV makes a sudden turn in the middle of the junction, its massive freight swinging with all of that momentum right toward—

“Nicholas!” Danny yells. 

He barely has time to realise that he’s not the only person yelling Nicholas’ name before Nicholas makes this weird, precise swerve, and the motorbike is tipped to one side, the tyres still eating pavement as its centre of gravity shifts. It tilts so far that _just_ as the HGV’s weight would have knocked him all the way to Salisbury, Nicholas and the motorbike are practically parallel to the road, sliding right under the freight and then emerging upright on the other side. 

It is one of the most badass things Danny has ever seen. “That’s one of the most badass things I’ve ever seen,” he breathes. 

“Sandford police. Stop and exit the vehicle!” Nicholas yells. He sounds so commanding and confident that Danny half-expects both drivers to pull neatly to the curb and step out with their hands on the backs of their heads. 

The growing distance of Nicholas’s voice wakes Danny from his stupor, and he returns his attention to the moped. He gets it working before Sergeant Fisher has time to stop him from following. 

###  **08.11: A moped appropriated for official police purposes**

Danny can’t quite keep up with the convertible, the HGV, and the motorbike, but he keeps them mostly in sight as they head into the farmland to the northeast of the town centre. He catches glimpses of what he thinks is a man climbing out of the HGV and onto the roof and jumping into the front seat of the convertible, but he can’t be sure. The next time he gets close, there are just the two men in the convertible, their matching bald heads gleaming in the sun. At some point they take the lead—which Danny can’t make sense of, because weren’t they chasing the HGV?—and then, sudden as a bursting balloon, take a sharp turn. The HGV doesn’t have time to brake or turn and instead hurtles straight into the trunk of a gargantuan oak. 

It’s a near thing, but the tree wins. 

The bonnet of the HGV smashes like a fizzy drink can, and then the whole thing just topples over, hitting the dirt with a rumble and the violin-high creaking of metal. Another broad-shouldered, thick-necked bloke climbs out the shattered windscreen. He takes off, stumbling a little but still fast. Nicholas has already dismounted the motorbike like a victorious cowboy off his horse and taken after the bloke on foot. The doppler of sirens grows closer. 

Danny clutches his hat to his head and barrels toward Nicholas and the driver. Nicholas is still shouting all the things that official vocab guidelines say to shout at a man who has just taken an HGV on a high-speed pursuit through the Village of the Year and crashed it next to the duck pond. 

The duck pond is, in fact, where Nicholas catches up to the big bloke and tackles him into the water. Danny’s nearly close enough to help. Distantly he hears the warbles of sirens even out, no longer in motion; he hears car doors slam and people running and calling out. 

Mostly he hears Nicholas as he surges out of the water, meets Danny’s eyes with his own, and yells, “Duck!” 

In his peripheral vision, Danny catches Doris, Sergeant Fisher, and several people in forensic jumpsuits crouching down. He only has eyes for the mallard wildly waddling toward him, bleating and honking like the sky is falling. Danny reaches down and scoops the wriggling bird into his arms and then tosses it straight at—well, straight at where Nicholas’s and the big bloke’s heads just were. 

The squawking duck hits the bloke in the face, brown and cream feathers bursting through the air, giving Nicholas the distraction he needs to grab the bloke’s arm, pull it behind him in a hold, and cuff his wrists together behind his back. 

Danny pants, standing with his hands on his knees. “You alright?” 

He looks up, and Nicholas is grinning at him. “Brilliant, Sergeant Butterman.” 

Danny beams back at him. He stands like that, catching his breath and staring at Nicholas’ face, as Nicholas begins reciting, “You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if—” 

But the bloke is not having it. He thrashes against the cuffs, yelling and spitting, “Fuck you! Fuck this town—” 

“Hey!” Fisher has reached them, looking affronted. 

Undeterred, the bloke prattles on, “—fuck all of you! You think you know what’s happening here?” He throws his head back and laughs, even as water and algae and mud sluice down his face. “You know fuck-all! The boss’ll be back, and then you’ll all be fucked! You’re fucked, you hear me!” 

This last is punctuated by the sound of his teeth grinding down with a startling extra crunch, and then he’s sputtering, there’s foam coming out of his mouth, and he collapses to the ground.

“Cyanide pill,” Nicholas growls. 

The paramedics surround the driver in under a minute, but it’s too late. 

“Nicholas,” one of the forensic techs says, her voice breathless, her protective glasses directed piercingly at Nicholas’. 

Nicholas’s face squishes into something between a polite expression and a wince. Danny thinks he knows who’s inside that jumpsuit, and who yelled Nicholas’s name just as Danny had. “Hullo, Janine.” 

###  **11.39: Sandford Police Station**

It’s a mess back at the station. Well, not a literal one, because the binders are still all tidied and evenly spaced on their shelves, arranged by the coloured labels on the spines. The drawers of the file cabinets are neatly closed, and there aren’t any stray globs of Black Forest Gateaux trod into the fibers of the carpet. 

It’s a mess in the sense that it’s packed like a mosh pit at a Dead Kennedys concert. They’re all pressed together, officers, paramedics, forensic techs, a group of unfamiliar men and women wearing sharp business suits, a reporter from _The Sandford Citizen_ and one from _The Daily Telegraph_ , as well as—for some reason—firefighters. Nearly everyone is screaming, “Inspector Angel!” 

Danny makes it two hours at his desk before he escapes. “This is a mess,” he says, pushing his way toward freedom. 

“Ishamessalrighannomishtin,” PC Walker agrees. 

The two of them, plus Saxon, slip into the locker room. PC Walker creaks onto the old wooden chair by the door. He takes out his mobile and starts playing Angry Birds. Saxon walks in three precise little circles and lays down with his head on Walker’s shoe. 

Danny changes out of his uniform, packs away his things, and makes a dash for the staff kitchen. He and Nicholas are usually the only ones who use it; Nicholas is the one who’d insisted it be installed in the rebuilt station in the first place, in hopes of encouraging healthy meal planning. Instead everyone else goes off to get sandwiches from Tesco or stays at their desks with curry or fast food. So it’s there that Nicholas finds him some time later, making tea and using the little two-burner stove to reheat leftovers of the shepherd’s pie Nicholas made the night before. 

“Enough for me?” The door closes quietly. First thing on arriving at the station, Nicholas had showered and put on a fresh uniform. Danny can smell his soap. 

“Course.” Danny loads a plate with the other half of the pie. 

“Still on for this afternoon?” Nicholas asks through a mouthful. 

“We got time?” 

“The Sandford Police Service honours compensatory time, Sergeant Butterman.” 

“What about you though? With Mr Whittemore an’ the HGV an’ all that?” 

Nicholas shrugs and leans one hip against the counter. “Waiting for lab results.” 

“What about the paperwork?” 

“The paperwork can wait.” 

“Nicholas,” a woman’s voice breathes in shock. 

They both turn to the jumpsuited CSI standing in the doorway. Her jumpsuit is the pristine white of whipped cream. There’s a blue sanitary mask covering most of her face. Her gloves and the trim on her safety glasses are the same shade. 

“Janine.” Nicholas clears his throat. “Janine, this is Sergeant Butterman, my colleague and flatmate. Danny, Janine.” 

“Hullo.” Danny gives her a little wave. 

But Janine’s protective eyewear is pointed at Nicholas alone. “I’d heard you had changed.” She chuckles. “Guess I had to see it for myself.” 

“How’s Dave?” Nicholas asks. 

“Oh, Dave! He left me for Bob and they moved to Somerset.” Janine says this brightly, but then she tilts her head significantly in Danny’s direction, giving him a feeling like ice cream is dripping down his spine, cold and sticky. 

“Sorry to hear that,” Nicholas says stiffly. “Well, Danny and I have to be getting on—” 

“Nicholas. I want to talk to you.” 

“We can talk while you’re in town.” Nicholas has turned to the sink to wash up from lunch, putting his back to Janine. 

“I want to talk to you now.” 

“Then come with us,” Nicholas challenges her. “It’s the first night of the village Brambleberry Festival, and there’s a kicking-off party at Town Hall.” 

Janine startles a little but says, “It’s settled, then.” 

“Yippee,” Danny says quietly to himself. 

Nicholas dries his hands, turns to face them both, and then claps his hands together. “Great. Ready?” 

“We’re going right now?” 

“Yep,” Danny replies, following Nicholas toward the side exit. “Don’t wanna miss the brambleberry cocktails.” 

Janine gasps softly. “You’re drinking?” 

“Yes, Janine,” Nicholas replies evenly, “I drink socially. As do most members of the service. You coming?” 

“I—I won’t have time to stop at the hotel and change, will I.” 

“It’s in the opposite direction,” Danny tells her helpfully. 

They slip out unnoticed by the people clamouring inside. When they reach Nicholas’s car, Danny takes shotgun without discussion. Janine doesn’t comment, though Danny thinks she wants to. 

###  **13:33 PM: Nicholas Angel’s Car, Southflower Road**

They’re five or so miles down Southflower Road before Janine speaks. “How are you doing, Nicholas? How have you been?” 

“Quite well,” Nicholas says. “And you? Keeping busy?” 

“You could say that. I have someone in my life now. It’s… intense.”

“This someone the type to show up for dinners and birthdays?” 

Janine considers this. “You know,” she says slowly, “I’m not sure. There are—well. It’s a bit complicated, really.” She turns to stare out the window. Or Danny thinks she does; it’s hard to tell with the sanitary mask and protective eyewear. Her head’s pointed that way, anyway. 

Danny thinks that’s the end of it, but a few minutes later she turns her focus to him.

“You spend a lot of time with Nicholas, Danny?” 

“Oh yeah,” Danny says. “Loads. We live together, go to the shop together, work together, go to the pub together.” 

Janine hmms. “But are you spending time _together_? Or just passing time near each other?” 

Danny wrinkles his nose. “Wassat mean?” 

“I mean,” she says, “do you actually _know_ each other?” 

“Course we do.” 

“What’s his favorite film, then?” Janine’s tone reminds Danny of a schoolmistress administering an oral exam. 

“ _Tango and Cash_.” 

“Not _Shot in the Dark_?” 

“A bit boring after repeated viewings, isn’t it?” Nicholas replies. 

“Usual breakfast?” 

“Egg and soldiers, Greek yoghurt with blueberries and strawberries.” 

“You really have learned how to turn off, haven’t you,” Janine says. “You ate plain porridge every day of the week when we lived together.” 

“I have,” Nicholas says firmly. 

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” 

“Well, you’re going to in just a moment,” Nicholas tells her as he pulls into the town hall car park. “Hope you don’t need to make or receive any calls while you’re here.” 

“Why’s that?” 

“No reception,” Danny replies as they walk up the path to the building. “It’s spotty all over town, but out here it’s like a black hole.

“There’s a landline if you really need it,” Nicholas assures her. 

People are already milling around the hall when the three of them come in. There are high cocktail tables set up with mixed drinks in martini glasses and red wine in flutes. There’s a little podium in the middle, where Mindy Swindlehurst is talking into a mic about the brambleberry harvest. A half-dozen people are standing close enough to the speakers—which must be turned down quite low—to hear her. 

Danny picks a table with a completely full tray of drinks, hops up onto a stool, and scoops up a glass of something purple. Nicholas and Janine join him and they clink their glasses together before falling into silence. Janine stares down at her glass, though she doesn’t drink from it. 

Fortunately, they’re interrupted when Peter Staker stops by to chat. He’s soon followed by the Pringers, Timmy and Paulie Braxton (Doris’s dad’s cousin’s daughter and her husband), Damian and Evan Norwood (Bob’s daughter’s husband’s brother and his husband), and the Aaronsons. None of them comment on Janine’s jumpsuit, gloves, sanitary mask, and safety eyewear, though Danny thinks that Timmy wanted to. 

Arthur Webley turns up next. “Hulloispectorsargeantanjumsuilady. Izafineveninginnit? Hoozisbirden, ooblokessweengennow?" 

Danny can only be sure of the first couple words of that utterance. To be safe, he says, “Hullo Mr Webley. How are you enjoying the party?” 

“Eh?” Webley asks, leaning forward with one hand cupped around his ear. 

“How are you enjoying the party?” Danny asks, much louder. 

Webley shrugs. “S’alroight, arghspose.” 

“Nicholas,” Janine says after Webley has wandered off again. “I really would like to speak with you.” 

Nicholas sips at his second cocktail. “Well, here I am.” 

“In” —she nods and flashes a pointed look in Danny’s direction— “in _private._ ” 

“S’alright,” Danny assures Nicholas, before he can say anything. “Sounds important.” 

“Fine.” Nicholas gets to his feet and leads Janine to a cupboard next to Moira Breckenridge’s brambleberry topiary display. 

Danny fetches a fresh cocktail and moseys toward Mindy. She has a lot to say about brambleberries. She’s just getting into how bramble jelly was canned in Edwardian times when five men and one woman burst through the doors, pointing guns at shocked partygoers. 

“Oh, bugger.” 

###  **14.35: Main Hall, Sandford Town Hall**

Danny’s never been in a hostage situation before. Well, he’s been _a_ hostage before, with his dad, and also with Nicholas, actually, and those situations could conceivably be called hostage-adjacent. But he hasn’t been in a proper hostage situation, with a whole group of people and a bunch of dodgy-looking blokes with sleek black handguns. 

There’s a lot of yelling at the start. The blokes with guns yell at everyone to show their hands and gather in one place; one bloke in a navy blue two-piece suit lowers his gun and barks orders at the others. The woman with the gun stands beside him silently. But she seems to be the only one: Jeremy and Nora Adamson are calling out in distressed tones about their daughter’s babysitter; Johnny Norwood is screaming; Claire Nielsen is hyperventilating; and Mrs Plaskett is shouting about terrorists. Of course, even Danny can tell they’re not terrorists, but Mrs Plaskett is a racist, Islamophobic old bint who’s too much of a twat to realise that the bloke in the saffron turban is Sikh, and crucially, not one of the gunmen but in fact Bishan Singh (Rosa Robinson’s girl’s boyfriend from university, who’s in town for the brambleberry festival). 

There’s a smaller commotion when two of the gunmen go through everyone’s bags and pockets and things. They find a driver’s licence for Mindy, pull her out of the group, and walk her down the hallway out of sight. The men return a couple minutes later. Mindy doesn’t. 

After that excitement, it’s quite dull. Everyone at the party just sits on the floor in a circle while the gunmen whisper to each other and watch them menacingly. The hostages aren’t even allowed cocktails. Their mobiles have all been taken away and put in a pile, too, though Danny doesn’t know why they bothered. There’s no reception out here anyway, and he overheard one of the blokes with guns discussing with another how the Town Hall wifi has been rerouted. 

Nicholas must still have his walkie on him, though it’ll be of little use since Janine doesn’t have one and Danny’s is in the pile with the mobiles and upturned handbags. As far as Danny knows Nicholas and Janine are still in the cupboard, which seems a step up from being a hostage. He wishes Nicholas were sitting beside him; Nicholas would know what to do. But even if Danny had his walkie, the sound from the cupboard would be a dead giveaway anyway. 

He occupies himself by listening to Arthur Webley’s conversation with Murchadh Caoidheach (Mindy’s brother’s stepson’s Scottish cousin). 

“Wis tha bra’est frozen pizza ah’ve iver haid,” Murchadh is saying. 

“Iznahazgooazthosepissapockesstho,” Webley replies. 

“Och, ya ken ah can git ain a them?”

“Deyallaysavemattashopwenaigo.” 

It’s not particularly compelling. Danny looks longingly at the nearest drinks tray. He’s interrupted by a pair of hands hauling him to his feet. He shakes them off and glares at the bloke who’d manhandled him. “I can stand on my own, thanks.” 

“C’mon,” the bloke growls, grabbing Danny’s arm and tugging him toward the man in the navy blue suit. 

“You’re Sergeant Butterman, aren’t you,” the man in the suit says, voice slow and sneering. He has an accent, Danny thinks German, except it doesn’t sound like how the Germans sound in _Indiana Jones,_ so maybe he’s wrong. 

Danny crosses his arms. “Could be. What’s it to you?” 

The German steeples his fingers. “You’re Inspector Angel’s partner, are you not?” 

Danny doesn’t reply. 

“If you’re here, I wonder where Inspector Angel might be?” 

“Didn’t come.” 

“Is that right?” 

“Tha’s right. Too much paperwork,” Danny says with a smug smile. 

“He’s in the cupboard!” yells some bastard from the circle of hostages. 

“See?” the German says. “That wasn’t so hard.” He nods toward his men, who approach the cupboard with their weapons drawn. 

Danny holds his breath. The cupboard door swings open, revealing— 

An empty cupboard. 

“Borgogni, Everhart, locate Inspector Angel. Tear this building apart,” the German snarls. “McGill, check on our friend Mr Gibson. Annelie, with me.” 

Danny is sent back to sit in the hostage circle, where he glares at everyone he thinks might have snitched about the cupboard. Just because it worked out alright doesn’t mean Danny forgives them. 

Another half-hour passes in boredom. McGill returns and whispers something to the German that makes him very upset. Fifteen minutes later, several crashes and thunks sound from a floor above them. Someone called Calum starts yelling about his brother and trying to get in the lift, McGill yelling back. After a struggle, the lift doors close with Calum on the other side, and McGill crumples to the ground, unconscious. Fifteen minutes after that, Borgoni and Everhart haven’t returned. Annelie, the gunwoman (there’s surely a gender-neutral term in the official vocab guidelines, but Danny doesn’t know it yet) and the German bloke are the only ones of their group standing in the hall. 

And then the lift explodes. 

###  **15.16: Main Hall, Sandford Town Hall**

Danny wishes he'd had time to appreciate the epic fireball being blown out the front of the lift, but he's too busy being shoved around and having a gun pointed at him. It's not too much different than when his dad did it, though a good deal less terrifying. This time, it's the German bloke holding a gun to his temple. Annelie stands beside them, her gun pointed at Nicholas and Janine. They have guns now too, and are aiming them right back at Annelie and the German. 

Janine’s once-white jumpsuit is mostly gray-brown now, with crimson splashes of blood. Her protective eyewear is still in place, if a bit smudged. Nicholas’s clothing is also coated in what Danny thinks is a thick smear of dust, with a splatter of blood on top. But there the similarities with Janine’s attire end. He’s barefoot, his trousers are all torn up, his stab vest, kit belt, and necktie are gone, and his shirt’s hanging open. His short hair looks somehow untidy, like velvet pushed the wrong way. 

There may be a gun pressed against his head, but Danny can’t restrain himself from noticing how fit Nicholas looks at this moment. Well, he always does, and most of all when he’s kicking arse or solving a tough case or both, but now Danny can see his vest, and that makes his brain go all wibbly. The few times he’s seen Nicholas around the cottage in anything but proper clothing have been brief glimpses in the dead of night, and those times Nicholas was covered head-to-toe by his pyjamas. 

“Drop your weapons,” the German orders, “or your dear Danny boy gets it.” 

Janine starts to lower hers, and Nicholas’s hand twitches. 

“Don’t,” Danny says immediately. 

“Danny,” Nicholas says desperately, eyes flicking around the room in search of a way out of this. There’s a huge chandelier hanging in the hall; Danny had noticed it right away. That, for a variety of reasons, is of no help at all. 

“Go on, shoot me then!” Danny says. “You got the bollocks to really do it?” 

“Danny!” Nicholas cries. “What are you doing?” 

“I’ll do it!” the German insists, cocking his gun. 

“Yeah, big fancy German bandit. Just playin’ cops ‘n robbers, aren’t you? You wouldn’t know the real thing if it bit you on the arse. Why haven’t you shot me yet, then? C’mon. Give it a go.” 

“Don’t tempt me,” the German growls. 

“They want something from the admin office,” Danny says, quick as he can. Nicholas’s eyes are locked on his, blazing and confused, radiant and hopeful and pleading. “Took Mindy first thing, ‘n she’s got the keys for tonight. Prob’ly trying to get into the safe. That’s why you went after Mr Whittemore, wasn’ it, hopin’ he’d tell you how to open it?” 

Annelie speaks for the first time. “Got it all figured out, have you?” 

“I reckon I have,” Danny says. “Just like I figured these guns are all replicas.” 

All four prop guns are tossed to the ground before the word is even all the way out of his mouth. One is set off—it only shoots a blank, of course, but the sound it makes is deafening. The German releases Danny and shoves him at Nicholas and Janine while he and his partner turn to flee. 

Nicholas catches Danny in his arms, shaking his head and looking down at him in wonder. “You really do have it all figured out.” 

“‘Course I do,” Danny says. Nicholas hasn’t let go of him. 

Beside them, Janine tackles Annelie to the ground. 

“Well, you’re the brains of this operation,” Nicholas agrees. His smile has melted into a fond little upturn of his lips. “We found Mindy and the hacker. He’s cuffed to the window in the file room.” 

“Got ‘er,” Janine announces triumphantly. 

Nicholas and Danny turn to see that Janine has, in fact, emerged victorious. Her jumpsuit looks barely any messier than before, and her eyewear is still straight and pushed up on her nose. Her opponent, meanwhile, is lying halfway over a cocktail table. Strands of hair have pulled loose of her tight plait. 

“Well done,” Nicholas says, tossing Janine a pair of handcuffs. 

“Why’re you all dusty?” Danny runs a finger over the shoulder of Nicholas’s shirt. He feels Nicholas shiver at his touch—or maybe it’s the other way around. 

“Vents,” Nicholas breathes. 

Janine, apparently finished with handcuffing Annelie, clears her throat. “Kaufer’s getting away.” 

“Right,” Nicholas says sharply, releasing Danny. 

The few hostages remaining in the hall point them in the direction of the stairs. Nicholas, Janine, and Danny take pursuit. 

###  **15.22: East Stairway, Sandford Town Hall**

The doors out to the first floor are locked, as are the doors to the second. The next landing is the end of the staircase, and the door to the roof hangs half-off its hinges. 

Kaufer stands in the centre, stance tense and poised to fight. “This is it, Angel!” he calls. 

“Where d’you think you’re _going_?” Nicholas asks, stepping toward him. “We’re on a roof. In the country.” 

Kaufer laughs. “That won’t stop my business partners.” He points. 

Danny follows the line of his finger to a helicopter emerging from the clouds a ways off. By his estimate, it’s some minutes away yet. A half-hour, even. 

Nicholas seems to come to the same conclusion, because in the blink of an eye he launches himself onto Kaufer, knocking them both to the ground. 

“Nicholas!” Janine yells. 

Danny doesn’t, this time. He can already see that Nicholas has the upper hand. He does join her, though, in running up to where the two of them are wrestling, rolling over each other on the rooftop. There’s pebbles and grit worked into Kaufer’s navy suit, and Nicholas’s shirt is now entirely absent. 

There’s not much Danny and Janine can do to help. At one point Danny tries to grab Kaufer by the ankles, but he’s kicked off. The motion topples the grappling men further along the roof. They’re rolled right up to the edge of the roof now, Nicholas’s back against the low parapet. Janine catches hold of Kaufer’s arm, but he bites her and she releases him, swearing. Since Kaufer’s just gotten a mouthful of vent dust, blood, and plastic forensic jumpsuit, however, he’s distracted from the struggle by his own coughing and spitting. 

Nicholas uses his advantage to shove the man off of him, sending him hurtling over the edge of the roof. Nicholas, Janine, and Danny all freeze as Kaufer shrieks, then rush to peer over the edge when he suddenly goes quiet. 

Kaufer is flat on his back in the grassy bit along one side of the car park. His face is twisted in a shocked, open-mouthed expression of terror. 

“Three storeys is not high enough to kill an adult,” Nicholas says, frowning. 

As if needing this information to cling to life, Kaufer pushes himself upright, chest heaving. He rises to his knees, hunched and panting, and then to his feet. After a few hesitant steps he takes off at a run, straight toward the castle grounds. 

Nicholas turns to Danny with a grin. “You been practicing your falls and rolls?” 

Danny grins back. “Really?” 

“Really,” Nicholas says, and then leaps off the edge of the roof like some kind of beautiful, less deranged swan. 

Janine sighs but copies him. 

“C’mon!” Nicholas yells up. “You can do it, Danny!” 

Danny holds that thought in his mind and jumps and then he’s falling and then, even more suddenly, the soles of his trainers brush against the grass. Before they have time to rest on the dirt below, he throws his weight forward and falls into a roll. When he’s lying face-up and looking up at the sky, Nicholas reaches out a hand to pull him up. 

“Well done,” Nicholas says. He’s positively beaming. Glowing, even, and Danny never wants to step out of his light. 

Danny takes his hand. His elbow doesn’t feel broken, so he thinks he really has done alright with the falling and rolling bit. “Yippee ki-yay, motherfucker,” he says, and they take off after Kaufer. 

###  **16.10: Northwest Gothic Folly, Sandford Castle**

“What I don’t understand is, what does that American street-racing family have to do with any of this?” Danny wonders aloud. 

Nicholas shushes him. They’re hiding in a copse of trees, watching Kaufer. He’d stopped running a minute or so ago. No he leans against the wall of one of those Victorian follies done up to look like gothic ruins and such, where they had the estate’s hermit live. Well, not in this one, probably; there’s no ceiling, just a lot of walls full of pointed arches. 

A tall blonde woman steps out from behind the main structure of the folly. She’s dressed all in black, and has two humongous guns strapped to her back. Kaufer perks up and heads toward her. 

“What do we do?” Danny whispers. 

“Wait,” Nicholas hisses back. 

Kaufer and the woman have reached one another now, talking in voices too low to be heard. He gesticulates widely with his hands and arms. Danny thinks he catches a gesture indicating _explosion_. The cadence and snatches of sounds that the wind blows toward the trees give Danny the impression that it’s not English they’re speaking; they’re more like the sounds Link makes when he’s in combat. 

The woman pulls a pistol out of her belt and shoots Kaufer twice in the head. He collapses, and she replaces the gun. 

Janine darts out of the trees toward Kaufer and his killer. 

“Janine!” Nicholas calls, but she’s not stopping. 

“Stasya!” Janine yells. 

“Shit,” Nicholas says, and he and Danny run after her. 

The blonde woman—Stasya, apparently—turns toward them. Her eyes land on Janine, and she smiles prettily. “Janine,” she says, voice soft and sweet. 

Janine stops in her tracks. “Stasya. You’re here.” She sounds breathless. 

Nicholas and Danny catch her up and stand at her side. Danny looks at Nicholas, who shrugs helplessly. Stasya hasn’t reached for any of her weapons, and they don’t want to invite her to do so. And maybe Janine can talk her down. Hell, maybe Stasya’s on their side side; she shot Kaufer, after all. 

Stasya’s expression darkens, and she stalks toward them, hips swaying in a way that hits somewhere between a fashion catwalk and a fox about to pounce. “I heard you were in town,” she says, the sincerity in her voice replaced with sickly sweetness. Danny thinks her accent might be Russian. It’s soft though, barely there, not at all like how Xenia Onatopp sounds in _Goldeneye_. “And I knew I _had_ to see you.” 

“Was that the Sinclair family chasing your HGV?” 

“Americans,” Stasya scoffs. “Dirk Sinclair and his goons don’t know the first thing about me, my operation, or what cargo that plonker was hauling.” 

“You don’t have to do this. You still have a chance,” Janine says, pleading. The thrum of helicopter blades cuts through the air abruptly, much closer than Danny expected.

Stasya stops right in front of her, their faces a hair’s breadth apart. “No,” she spits. “I don’t.” 

“Listen to me, the people paying you—” 

“Like you listened to me in Paris?” 

Janine blanches. The sound of the helicopter reaches earsplitting volumes; it’s nearly on top of them, now. There are three more choppers in the sky, coming from Sandford. They’re in police colours. “That’s not fair, I—” 

“What you ask is impossible,” Stasya says with finality. The helicopter drops ever lower to the ground, and a ladder is tossed out one side. 

“Stasya.” Janine pulls off her protective eyewear and holds Stasya’s gaze. “Wait.” 

But Stasya is already making her way up the second rung of the ladder, the helicopter pulling away. “Goodbye, Janine.” 

They stand there, in the damp grass in front of the folly, Janine watching Stasya’s helicopter grow further and further away, Nicholas and Danny watching Janine and sneaking each other questioning glances. Janine, Danny notices for the first time, has beautiful eyes. This close, he can see the texture of concealer under her eyes, the thin eyeliner and light eyeshadow on her lids, the tears and mascara pooling on her eyelashes. She’s wearing a full face of makeup under all that. 

_Well, my eyes are pretty, too_ , Danny thinks sullenly. 

“Janine,” Nicholas says at last, “was that Stanislava Tyoma Pasternak, the most prolific assassin in the northern hemisphere?” 

Janine sniffs, straightens, and replaces the glasses on her face. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Right…” Danny says, glancing at Nicholas for guidance. 

“Can see why you don’t invite her to birthdays,” Nicholas mutters. 

“Look, Nicholas. I still care about you. I always will. And I just hoped—I wanted to make sure that you’re happy, here.” Her eyes flick to Danny, and even though most of her expression is still obscured by her facemask, the way her eyelids crease and fold make him think she’s smiling a small, sad little smile. “And I see that you are.” 

“I am,” Nicholas agrees. “I’ve found a balance. Isn’t that what you wanted?” 

“Yes,” Janine replies. She looks away from them and back toward the spot of sky where Stasya’s helicopter was only moments earlier. “And now I suppose I have to find mine, too.” 

With that, she starts off in the direction of the Town Hall car park. 

“Looks like backup’s here,” Danny says, nodding his head toward the helicopters. 

“Looks like.” Nicholas scrubs his face with the heel of his hand. “Think they’ll let me wait ‘till tomorrow for my statement?” 

Danny shrugs. “Well, you’re the Inspector.” 

###  **18.43: Nicholas Angel’s Cottage**

Danny drives them back to the cottage. Apparently Nicholas had walked over a spilled bundle of Moira Breckenridge’s brambles and got his feet all cut up, so Danny wraps them in the towels from the emergency bag in the boot, and helps him inside. “You should’ve said earlier,” Danny scolds. 

“I’m fine,” Nicholas insists, though he sinks rather heavily onto the love seat. 

“You walked all that way from the hall to the folly with your feet cut up like that?” Danny calls back to him from the bathroom. He returns with the first aid kit. 

Nicholas makes a face as Danny sets the kit on the coffee table and sits down at Nicholas’s feet. “Oh, you don’t need all that,” he grouses. 

“You’d insist on the same for me,” Danny points out. 

Nicholas scowls at the rubbing alcohol Danny is pouring onto the little cotton prep pads that always feel like they snag at his fingerprints. Danny takes the silence as begrudging acceptance and starts dabbing the alcohol onto the soles of Nicholas’s feet. Each pass over a cut is met with a hiss. 

“Oh, really, that’s not necessary at all,” Nicholas says when Danny gets out the gauze. 

“Oh, c’mon, humour your mate Danny?” He looks up at Nicholas the way his old dog Maggie used to when she begged for table scraps. 

Nicholas makes a sound somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle. “Oh, alright then, for my mate Danny,” he says, lifting a foot for Danny to wrap. “I missed Mindy’s talk on Edwardian canning techniques.” 

“She alright?” Danny asks, finishing the second foot and getting to his feet. 

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, she’s fine. Janine knocked out the guy working on the safe and sent Mindy out to the station on Lionel Beaumont’s bicycle. Kaufer’s men had cut the landline,” Nicholas adds. 

Danny settles himself into the love seat with his feet in Nicholas’s lap. “What were they after in the safe, anyhow?” 

“Classified,” Nicholas says, apparently completely serious. 

“Aww, you can tell me! I won’t snitch.” 

“Well,” Nicholas considers, “it _is_ getting moved, anyway.” 

“There you go!” 

“Now, I’m not privy to all the details, but as I understand it, the safe contains a hard drive MI5 is eager to keep hidden.” 

Danny gasps. “Secret spy stuff?” 

Nicholas nods. 

“Why would something like that be kept in Sandford?” 

“Well,” Nicholas chuckles, “the idea was that no one would think to look for it here.” 

“No one except _Stasya_ ,” Danny says playfully. He sobers. “I can’t even imagine how much paperwork we’ve incurred.” 

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Nicholas says, knocking his shoulder into Danny’s. “We barely even got started on the Whittemore case, let alone the Sinclair thing and that HGV driver.” 

“Bloody hell, I forgot that was just this morning.” The day, Danny reflected, had been absolutely barmy. “Today was absolutely barmy,” he says. 

“Was it ever,” Nicholas agrees.

Danny considers. “Kinda fun, though. Yeah?” 

Nicholas grins. “A bit, yeah.” 

“You were amazing,” Danny says. “I can just picture you in those vents, an’ taking down that hacker an’ all the rest. And then when you tossed Kaufer off the roof, you were all ‘where do you think you’re going?’ and he was all ‘aaaarghh, I’m falling off a roof!’” 

“Is that what you think I sound like?” Nicholas asks, laughing. 

“What, like ‘I’m Nicholas Angel and I’m Inspector of Sandford and I’ve got a great arse and you better get out of my way’?” Danny asks innocently, keeping up the deep growl he uses to imitate Nicholas. 

“Yeah, like that.” 

“You were amazing,” Danny says again. “When you landed, and then I landed—you looked....” he thinks for a moment. “Effulgent.” 

“Thank you, Danny,” Nicholas says, a soft smile on his face. 

Danny beams back at him. They sit like that for awhile, smiling at each other. Nicholas is still stripped down to his vest and torn-up trousers. The day’s events play through Danny’s head. He hopes Janine and Stasya figure things out. “Nicholas?” 

“Danny?” 

“D’you think that duck’s alright?” 

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Yuletide, Stratisphyre! I was so excited to write Hot Fuzz. I hope you enjoy, and have a wonderful Yuletide and new year. 
> 
> Britpicking welcome. 
> 
> For confused Americans like myself, as far as I could determine, HGV (heavy goods vehicle) is the UK term for semis.
> 
> I suffer from the rare condition of comment deficiency. Only you can help me combat it. 
> 
> Kudos to charge, comment to cast.
> 
> If you liked this piece, please consider reblogging the [tumblr post](https://dirigibleplumbing.tumblr.com/post/190009865632/try-hard-with-effulgence-dirigibleplumbing) for this fic! 
> 
> Also check out my [tumblr](https://dirigibleplumbing.tumblr.com/), where I post writing updates, writing snippets, occasional random updates about my life (usually related to my dog), lots Marvel reblogs, an increasing amount of NBC Hannibal reblogs, gifs of crows hopping, and photos of gothic cathedrals.


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